Addictions
by Ithilmir
Summary: Javert is addicted. Another challenge piece, written for the RevolutionBut September Challenge 2006. N.B. THIS IS NOT ABOUT SNUFF!


**A/N:** Once more, here's a summary of the (late) challenge; _"In contrast to the secret talent challenge we had last time, this month we bring you The Secret Vice: a character has what he or she considers to be a vice, moral failing, or bad habit. Can be as serious, humorous, slashy, innocuous, or shocking as you wish."_ How could I possibly ignore it? REMEMBER: This does not contain snuff in any way shape or form; so if you were expecting snuff, forget it. Reviews would be nice. Constructive criticism would be nicer.

"_We have no sympathy for the lost souls;  
We've chosen the path of disgrace.  
We give this life to our children  
And teach them to hate this place..."_ – 'Life Burns!', Apocalyptica

* * *

Paris – 1825

Javert slammed the door of his apartment shut behind him, flung off his coat and hat, lit a candle and sat down at the table with a growl of frustration. Again. He had missed him _yet again!_ He had gone to the Gorbeau Tenement with only the merest hint of a suspicion, flushed out his fox and chased it halfway across Paris… now after hounding him all night he had inexplicably lost both scent and quarry. He had searched the entire surrounding district, yet still a day later there was no sign of his thief. A whole night gone to waste for nothing!

He sighed and put his head in his hands, running weary fingers through his grizzled hair. His nerves were strained, his head ached from exertion and lack of sleep; he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep and wake to find that this embarrassment, this bloody stupidity had been nothing but a bad dream. Valjean. Valjean, Valjean… Why Valjean? He could have sworn he'd seen the last of that bastard when he read the obituary in _Le Moniteur_; but no, Jean Valjean had come back to haunt him, only this time not as M. Madeleine, but the Beggar Who Gave Alms.

Javert wiped his hands down his face and leaned back in his chair, loosening his cravat and unbuttoning his waistcoat. Would he ever be rid of Valjean? There was no telling. The man had defied death and imprisonment to taunt him once more; they had met, parted and met again so often now that he was starting to doubt coincidence had anything to do with the matter. Perhaps, the Inspector thought as he turned his gaze to the solitary candle flame, perhaps it was destined for the thief to be his one failing; for them to continue forever, Valjean one step ahead and he unable to catch up. Perhaps the Chase was destined to last the rest of their lives?

At this the Inspector let out a disgusted snort and shook his head, dismissing this passing fancy as soon as it had arisen. No, don't be daft. He was starting to stray into the realms of fiction; besides, what could possibly be the point of such a destiny? If Destiny did exist at all, which it didn't. Destiny was for superstitious fools who were too weak to take control of their own lives.

_But you're a superstitious fool, aren't you?_ said a little voice in the back of his head.

Shut up.

Again he sighed, returning his weary gaze once more to the flame. If only he knew where all this was going, if only he could find some way to clear his mind, to ease his frustration…

_But you can,_ the little voice chimed in._ You know you can._

No, Javert told himself sternly, snapping at the thought as if it were an insubordinate sergeant-de-ville. No, he was not going to start that again. He'd turned his back on that the last time, and he was not going to allow himself to slide.

_You need to, though. You'll never get any rest until you do…_

Frustrated he got up, pacing up and down the room to try and force his mind away from the subject. But it was no use; there was the gnawing in his chest, that poison-like feeling that spread through his veins to increase his restlessness. He increased the speed of his pacing, growling as he did so. There were other cases, other escaped criminals to chase; cases imminently more important and interesting.

_Maybe so, but this one disturbs you far more than it should. How can you allow yourself to be so distracted over an obsolete case?_

He slowed his pacing, weighing up the value of this new argument. Yes, it was unprofessional to get caught up with Valjean; after all, didn't the rest of the world believe him to be dead? He couldn't possibly allow himself to let the matter affect his work; it was his duty as a public servant, and that meant it was his duty to clear his head. But no, not in this way! It was appealing to his basest nature; it was demeaning for a man of his position! He was pleading with himself now; pleading for the all-consuming feeling to be gone.

_But you need to. You need to!_

More and more arguments sprung up like weeds in a well-hoed field for and against the action until his head was full of a swirling fog of unrest, his will weakening with every passing second. He groaned and covered his face with his hands. His head ached, he needed peace, he needed to banish these thoughts from his head!

_And there's only one way to do that, isn't there? Isn't there?_

Yes. Yes, there was only one way. This would be the last time, though, and after that he would stop. But it wouldn't be the last time, would it? Last time was the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that. If he gave in now it would go on; it would have no end.

_Just once more, once more and you can end it with a clear conscience!_

Fine, alright! Alright, he'd do it; just stop it! He ceased his pacing and strode into the bedroom, removing his work clothes and throwing them on the bed with contempt so they lay in a crumpled heap. Some part of his consciousness reproached him, saying they would be all untidy and creased tomorrow; but at this stage he was past caring. He pulled open a draw and proceeded to change into what casual clothes he possessed; grey trousers, a loose shirt, a red neck-tie, a disreputable brown jacket and a worker's cap, swapping his highly-polished boots for a pair of grubby shoes. He glanced in the mirror to survey the result, and what he saw was just another brigand to add to the Paris backdrop. He returned to the table, picking up his purse, extracting a few silver coins and thrusting them into his pocket. Then he blew out the candle, swept out of the room and closed the door behind him.

He walked through the streets with cap pulled low over his face, hands thrust deep into his pockets, shoulders slumped forward so he walked with a slouch. This was such a change from his usual rigid posture that no one familiar with Javert would ever have associated the fearsome Inspector with the apparent ne'er-do-well skulking his way through the filthy alleyways; and as he walked Javert lost no time in berating himself. He was disgusted, sickened at his lack of fortitude; at his inability to control his own desires. Like all addictions it had started with a need; a need to be certain about his place in the world, to know where he and everyone else stood. From this he could be certain of taking action, of trusting his abilities and conscience. He could only attribute it to some deep-rooted insecurity, a lack of confidence in himself. But that was ridiculous; he knew his capabilities, every felon in Paris knew he was not to be trifled with. No amount of reasoning would change anything, though. Some men were addicted to tobacco, opium, drink, gambling, or whores – it made no difference how odd or common the vice a man was slave to; what mattered was that they, including Javert, were helpless when faced with their craving.

Barely fifteen minutes after he set out he arrived at a low hovel in the slums situated on the southern edge of the city. Outside stood two young men; dark skinned, black hair and dishevelled clothes, sharing a roll-up between them and conversing in low voices. At the sight of Javert they stopped talking and stepped in his path, but almost immediately they recognised the piercing glare directed at them and pulled back, letting the Inspector pass. As he did so he heard one utter _"So či del o berš, del o časo…"_, followed by a muffled laugh. Javert set his mouth into a grim line and kept his eyes fixed forward. Let them laugh; tomorrow he would haul them in for something or other. Some petty crime, no doubt; but they would be laughing on the other side of their faces when he was through with them.

Once inside he stepped into a large room, absurdly clean for its location, lit by several candles and filled with men, women and children of assorted ages, standing, seated or lying down on palette beds. As soon as he entered the gentle buzz of conversation died and all eyes turned on him, and as ever they were gazes of curiosity, loathing or caution. Javert stared back. A middle-aged man stood up from a chair at the far side of the room, studying the visitor for a few moments before pulling aside a curtain to his left, leading into a smaller backroom. The man said something to whoever was within; Javert didn't hear the reply, but the man straightened up, holding the curtain aside and gave a nod. With this exchange Javert strode past the assembled men and women, more than aware of their gaze, and stooped under the doorframe, the thin curtain closing behind him.

In the centre of the dimly-lit room an old woman sat at a small baize-covered table, slowly laying cards down in front of her, quietly humming a non-descript tune. She didn't seem to notice him and for a while Javert stood waiting silently just beyond the threshold, watching her with a mixture of suspicion and mild impatience. Finally she spoke, not taking her eyes from the spread before her.

"Why, good evening, Inspector. We have not seen you for several months now; to what do we owe this pleasure?"

"You know why," Javert growled softly, moving across the room and seating himself in the empty chair opposite her. "And I sincerely doubt any of your band would call my presence here a 'pleasure'."

"Maybe not," said the woman, lifting her eyes from the cards to look at the Inspector piercingly. "But it is fascinating nonetheless."

"Oh? In what way, may I ask?"

"You hate coming here with every bone of your body, yet you come back again and again. Why is that?"

Javert took in the woman's ancient, crumpled face and those dark, knowing eyes. There was no maliciousness to be found there, there never was; nothing but a reserved curiosity.

"I need to know," he said quietly.

"Always to know," she said, echoing his words thoughtfully. "But do you know what it is you are searching for?"

Her tone irritated Javert and he gave her one of his more severe glares. Without taking his eyes from hers he reached into his pocket, took out one of the silver coins and laid it down on the table, pressing it under his thumb.

"Save it and read."

The old woman smiled wryly, not at all intimidated by Javert's tone or stare, and picked up the coin, looking at it for a second to check it was good before placing it in her apron pocket. She picked up the deck of cards.

"What is your question?" she queried, adopting a lofty, business-like air.

"I ask after a man I know," Javert said levelly, shifting back a little in his seat. "We have met several times in the past and each time he has left me unsettled; most recently yesterday. I feel somehow these meetings are more than chance, and I am certain that I have not seen the last of him. I want to know where I am heading with this man, if he will affect my life in any way and how this shall be resolved."

The woman waited patiently for any more information, but when the Inspector remained silent she nodded, sucking in her sallow cheeks thoughtfully.

"I shall need his name."

"You don't, and you know it," said Javert gruffly. "It's bad enough me coming here without being tricked into telling you any more than I need to."

The woman gave a disgruntled sniff, but nodded once more approvingly and proceeded to shuffle the cards, placing the deck back down to her right. She took the top two cards and turned them over, setting one beneath the other in the centre of the table. The Ace of Pentacles. The Four of Pentacles.

"You already have what you need to resolve this problem, but you do not trust yourself to take any action." She raised her eyebrow meaningfully at him. "You are advised to use what resources you have; you do not need any other guidance."

"But I'm here," said Javert mildly. "So you might as well continue."

The woman clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth disapprovingly, but the Inspector was a paying customer. She reached to turn over the next card; the Ten of Wands.

"The thought of this man is a burden to you, and a burden you are anxious to be rid of. Yet when presented with the opportunity you refuse to give him up. Is this the wisest course of action?"

"It's a matter of principle. I have no other choice."

"Oh? It is a man concerned with your work, then? A man running from the law?" The gypsy woman internally sighed as Javert gave her a defiant look. Since he had arrived in Paris she had done many readings for the Inspector, and each was as much a trial as the next. "So you tell yourself," she said grudgingly, turning the next card over to discover the Eight of Cups.

"In the past few years you have left behind much that was familiar to you. Discontentment and ambition have brought you to where you are now with this man." She smirked. "Time has yet to tell if this was a wise course of action."

She turned over the next card; the King of Swords.

"At this moment you stand in a position of great authority over those beneath you. The people you deal with may love or despise you, but you command their respect and they see your judgements as fair; you are ruthless, but you do what is right. Your man also sees you like this."

This in itself was a fair summing-up of her own view on Javert. He may have betrayed his own by choosing to live amongst _gadže_, but she had learnt much about Javert in that time, and the overall impression she received was something of a discontent adolescent in a man's skin. An exceptionally cunning and experienced adolescent, but an adolescent nonetheless. The next card to be drawn was the Eight of Swords.

"The position the both of you are in is uncomfortable, and in time to come it will vex you even more. But no matter how much you are disturbed or disrupted, now is not the time to act."

The following card revealed the Star.

"You must bide your time. There will be a resolution to your predicament, but it shall be slow in coming; many years perhaps, taking into account the length of time you have known this man. In this time you should take the opportunity to reflect, try to assess what has brought you and he to this moment."

Javert gave a dismissive snort and the old woman raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

"Don't damn a suggestion before you try. The act of reflection promises enlightenment; you might consider it."

The remark caused Javert to do little more than arch an eyebrow, as veiled insults usually flew thick and fast on such occasions as a reading. The woman's hand paused over the eighth card; the Hermit.

"Your life until now has been isolated and you choose to face this problem alone. Can you not seek confidence?"

She was met by an exceedingly blank expression. She sighed, tapping the card with her forefinger.

"Then maybe it is this man who is the answer; maybe acquainting yourself better with him should be your next step?"

Javert's brow furrowed in thought. The possibility of talking to Valjean? Not as ludicrous as it sounded; they had known each other for years, they would be capable of talking. But to talk to Valjean would mean finding him, and finding him would mean only one thing; the prospect of an arrest and an uncomfortable decision, a decision he was not ready to make. He lifted his head again, meeting the old woman's curious grey eyes.

"No."

Slowly the woman reached over to turn the second to last card face up, revealing to her the Devil. It took her a moment or two to overcome her bewilderment before she could speak.

"You fear this man. You see in him the potential to lead you astray from what you deem to be the correct way of living. But have you not considered that maybe this is what you need? That maybe, you need to be led astray?"

Who was this man? She was sure it was a person the Inspector was hunting, but for the hunter to fear corruption by his prey? It was unheard of in Javert. Yet fear and respect came hand in hand. Could a criminal earn Javert's respect? She had known tolerance, but never respect. The Devil, and then Death; the final card in the spread. She looked back over the reading, each card taking its place in the pattern of one man's life – no, two men. Here she had the reading of two men; two souls who could not be separated and heading for the same end. She shook her head wearily and sighed.

"This man seems to me to be a guide. He shall bring about change that shall strip you bare, take away all certainties and lay waste to everything you once knew and accepted. But from death there shall be rebirth. This man will cause you to lose much, but afterwards you will be able to gain beyond anything you have known or desired before. Your journey with this man shall be long, tiresome and painful; it is up to you whether you choose to grasp the opportunities he will bring your way."

Javert sat stock still, staring at the spread with a placid look of contemplation.

"Thank you," he said quietly; and with that he left. As he made his way back out into the street past the still leering sentries, the little voice at the back of his head reappeared to torment him.

_See? Now you know_

Yes, now he knew; but at what cost? From now on he knew that Valjean would never be far from his mind; how could it be otherwise after such a reading? Thoughts of the ex-con would haunt him till the end of his days. Valjean would never leave him, and Javert wished to Heaven that he had never asked.

Back at her card table, the old woman shook her head again wearily as she contemplated the Inspector's reading spread over the worn green baize. With infinite care she picked up each card and replaced it in the deck, leaving only Death and the Devil on the table, side by side. She gazed at them thoughtfully for a while longer, frowning and pursing her lips, before getting up and hobbling out through the beaded curtain in order to give her grandsons their routine verbal battering. When morning came, Pan and the Reaper were still side by side.

* * *

**A/N:** The phrase _"So či del o berš, del o časo"_ is a Romany proverb that translates as _"What a year may not bring, an hour might"_ and its general meaning is "We never know when something wished for could materialize, it is all up to fate." Take the purpose of Javert's visit and you can see the origin of the humour for the two sentries. 


End file.
